


For the Wheel's Still in Spin

by noviembre



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, American Politics, Campaign AU, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-13
Updated: 2013-03-06
Packaged: 2017-11-29 03:35:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/682276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/noviembre/pseuds/noviembre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jehan writes on his arms, Éponine makes interns cry, and Grantaire hates Boston.</p><p>Oh, and they're trying to win a presidential campaign.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. First Debate

**Author's Note:**

> 1\. This is entirely inspired by this photoset: http://thymoss.tumblr.com/post/42297309180/rouge-blanc-bleu-a-modern-les-amis-presidential (may contain very minor spoilers). All credit for the idea goes to thymoss, and I hope I've done it justice.
> 
> 2\. I've tried to keep it fairly realistic, so any inaccuracies are the fault of my lack of knowledge or the inherent difficulties of putting fictional 19th century French revolutionaries into modern American politics. Shh, just come.
> 
> 3\. Title from Bob Dylan's The Times They Are A-Changin'.
> 
> 4\. AHHH I cannot believe I forgot to thank Julia (teamenjolras.tumblr.com) for making this even remotely coherent. As always, she is the absolute greatest.

Superpowers, Courfeyrac decided. There was no other way to explain it. Just ten minutes ago, the office had been in absolute chaos—Éponine shouting at someone, two interns in tears, and a cacophony of phones ringing. Then Combeferre had swept in, briefcase in one hand and 20-oz black tea in the other, stood in the middle of the room, and begun Dealing With Things. Ten minutes later, the place was… well, still chaotic, but at least a more productive sort of chaos. Courfeyrac had known Combeferre since college, and he still wasn’t sure how the man was able to be so frighteningly competent.

As if he could feel Courfeyrac’s gaze, Combeferre looked up and gave him a warm smile. Courfeyrac grinned in return. After a two-week turn courting donors and kissing babies on the West Coast, it was nice to be back at campaign headquarters.

On any other day, he might have gone to chat with Combeferre for a while. Instead, he picked a chair in the main room and pulled out the New York Times. He knew Combeferre couldn’t afford to be distracted today. It was Debate Day, and he’d need all his superpowers to get through it.

__

Jehan peered at his elbow. He was sure the words he had scribbled down in the middle of the night in a fit of inspiration were brilliant, but he wasn’t entirely sure what they said. He was so engrossed in deciphering the smudges that he didn’t realize someone was sitting at his desk until he nearly sat on them.

“Why, Mr. Prouvaire. Not that I’m opposed, but this probably isn’t the best place for that,” Courfeyrac said.

“Courf!” he cried, dropping his things on the desk and embracing him.

“The way you were looking at your arm, I wondered if you hadn’t caught Joly’s hypochondria and decided you had cancer there,” Courfeyrac said, hugging him back.

“Oh! I thought of a wonderful line if they ask about the union legislation, but now I can’t read one of the words.”

Courfeyrac laughed. “It’s for Enjolras? It probably says ‘liberty’. Ah, here comes Éponine, I’m going to go hide now.”

“And leave me to deal with her on my own?” Jehan asked beseechingly.

“Absolutely.”

As Courfeyrac left, Jehan looked down at his arm again. Courfeyrac had been right – the smudge did say ‘liberty.’

“Prouvaire!” Éponine bore down on him, terrified staffers fleeing in her wake.

He gave her a placid smile. “Éponine! So lovely to see you this morning! You are as radiant as—”

“There are 8 hours and 17 minutes until the debate begins, I do _not_ need your sass today. What I do need are talking points on China on my desk ten minutes ago.”

Jehan twirled his plastic-flower-topped pen between two fingers. “The foreign policy debate is in two weeks. Are they really going to talk about China today?”

Éponine leveled him with a look that would break a lesser man. However, the downside of having an office almost entirely comprised of close friends meant that it was difficult to terrify a man who had spent hours braiding her hair and gossiping about their love lives with her.

“You’re questioning my analysis? 30 bucks says that O’Brien asks about the manufacturing downturn and whoever answers turns it immediately to China.”

Jehan considered, but he knew better than to go up against Éponine when it came to reading a political situation. Her understanding of the tricks of the political battlefield was uncanny—they were lucky to have gotten her away from fivethirtyeight.com to work for the campaign.

She raised an eyebrow. “That’s what I thought. And if you try to refer to China as a ‘lumbering mechanical dragon with fire in its eyes’ again, so help me I will _set you on fire_. Post-debate drinks are at Cosette’s tonight.” Her tone never lost its sharpness, and she turned on her heel and stalked away. Probably going to go make another intern cry, Jehan assumed.

__ 

Combeferre generally preferred an egalitarian style of leadership, but the one luxury he afforded himself was his own enclosed office. Most of the staff worked in tables and cubicles that had been set up in the middle of the largest room of the offices they rented; the particularly unlucky ones claimed spaces of floor near the outlets. Even with Courfeyrac’s ability to flirt contributions out of anyone, the fact remained that as an independent campaign they lacked the major-party funds.

Combeferre absentmindedly polished his glasses, remembered the confusion among the pundits when their staff continued to grow steadily, snatching up some of the best political strategists in the country for practically no money. But that was when they’d only seen Enjolras on paper: a brilliant student who’d done a turn in the Peace Corps and as a community organizer before becoming one of the youngest law professors in Yale’s history. Impressive, certainly, but far from presidential material.

Once Enjolras started campaigning in earnest, the pundits’ confusion only grew. No one knew what to make of the young, fiery candidate, who spoke not like a politician but a leader. There was something magnetic about his presence, which is why dozens of bright twenty-somethings turned down comfortable offers at DC think-tanks in favor of sitting on the floor of the chilly office.

Enjolras was brilliant, charming, occasionally terrible. He was also 20 minutes late. Combeferre sighed, and waved Cosette into his office.

“Anything from the airport?”

She tapped her smart phone. “According to the airport, there was a back-up on the runway, but his plane should be landing shortly.”

“Do we have travel arrangements for getting to UVA tonight?”

“It’s all in here.” She placed a folder on his desk. “You’ll be leaving at 4:15, and should be returning by 11 tonight.”

“Has Éponine found someone to practice against Enjolras before the debate?”

Cosette’s smile widened just a bit, and she handed him a folded piece of paper with a single name written on it.

Combeferre read it, blinked, and then slowly nodded. Cosette wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard him laugh under his breath.

“Thank you, Cosette. Excellent work as always. Make sure Bahorel has enough people for security tonight; remind him that he is not an entire security team by himself.”

Cosette nodded, and turned to go. As she reached the door, she paused and turned back. “Oh, Mr. Combeferre? Since you’ll be back here in Boston tonight, everyone will be gathering at my house to celebrate the debate. It would be wonderful if you two could attend.”

Combeferre peered at her over his glasses. “It seems you’re presuming Enjolras will be successful tonight.”

Cosette tilted her head. “How could he not?”

She smiled and left the room. Her certainty was a comfort to Combeferre, who couldn’t help but worry about Enjolras’ tendency to make startlingly cutting remarks that the media would jump all over. The last thing they needed was another Albuquerque incident.

Of course, none of that mattered if Enjolras never arrived. Combeferre took off his glasses to polish them again.

__

Grantaire hated Boston. For one thing, it was cold as fuck. For another, it was _cold as fuck_. He thought longingly of the stump speeches in Florida that were sure to come. At least a week where he could write his articles sitting out in the sun, where he wouldn’t have to clutch his hot coffee to avoid losing fingers to frostbite.

Of course, stump tours also meant spending extended amounts of time on the bus with Enjolras Himself. He grimaced at the thought and took a huge swallow of coffee, which he then proceeded to spit everywhere. “Shit! That’s hot!”

Now his tongue was scalded. Enjolras’ fault, too.

It would have been easier if he hated the man. Grantaire had known and despised many politicians in his career—you had to, if you were going to cover them in the news. Most of his successes had come from exposing their immorality and greed. It wasn’t hard to be a cynic in his line of work.

And then Enjolras came along, and Grantaire had first been outraged when his editors had assigned him to cover the campaign of an _independent_ candidate. A journalist of his caliber was assured to cover the Dem or GOP guy, and instead he got stuck with some idealistic kid? When he had called his editor in anger, she told him to go listen to the guy speak once, just once, and if he still felt the same afterwards he could cover the incumbent.

Well, he had gone to the speech, and here he was now, trying to remember if he took the red line or the blue line to get to the office. Fucking Boston. Fucking Enjolras, with his absurd idealism and honesty and morality and nice hair. If he had been a normal politician, with a shiny smile who always wanted to double check what was “off the record,” Grantaire would have happily hated him. Instead, the man roused and infuriated him, getting him to care about politics in a way he hadn’t since he was a freshman at Berkeley.

The whole campaign was an enigma, and writing about them was a bitch. How do you explain the brilliance behind the charm of the man hoping to be the first openly gay Vice President? Or the way the senior campaign staff was more like a family than anyone working in politics really ought to be? How the fuck do you explain Enjolras to your readers?

Speak of the devil. Grantaire turned the corner to see the man himself getting out of his golden chariot (or rather, black SUV).

He grinned and walked faster. Time to go be obnoxious. That was what journalists were paid for, after all.

“Professor Enjolras!” he sang.

Enjolras turned to see him with the resigned acceptance of a man facing his fate. “Mr. Grantaire. It’s been too long.” He unlocked the door and held it for Grantaire.

“ID?” asked the security woman. Grantaire leaned on her desk with his most charming grin. “Nora, Nora, how you wound me! Surely you remember me?”

Nora had not been swayed by his flirtation for the past four months. She just pressed her mouth into a thin line and stared at him, until he sighed and pulled his press badge out of his bag.

“Good luck tonight, sir,” she told Enjolras, who offered a nod and a smile.

Once they were in the elevator, Grantaire turned. “So! Tell me, do anything interesting on this trip? Save any small children? Overthrow tyranny in a third-world country?”

Enjolras glared impressively. “I was visiting schools in New Orleans. The people there stand as living testament to the strength of the human spirit, and it is an insult to humanity itself that we do not provide their children with the tools they need to thrive.”

“Practiced that one in the car, did you?”

Enjolras blinked. “No.”

He was telling the truth, that was the worst part. Grantaire didn’t think it was fair for someone to be so eloquent off-the-cuff.

“An insult to humanity? It’s not difficult to insult something whose very nature provokes scorn. I suppose a few missing textbooks might do the trick.”

Enjolras turned, fully facing him now. “Grantaire, I saw those people pulling each other up from the worst tragedy, forming communities and bettering each other.“

“And did you also see the looted stores, the high rates of murder and rape?”

“It is circumstance, not nature, that drives men to crime. If we—“

Someone cleared their throat. It was only then that both men noticed the open elevator door and the small crowd of people clearly waiting to go down. Enjolras looked sideways at Grantaire with a hint of a smile at their shared obliviousness, then stepped out towards Combeferre’s office.

Grantaire went to go bother someone, but he was stopped by Éponine.

“What are you doing for the next hour and a half?”

“Annoying your interns and adding increasing amounts of vodka to my coffee, most likely,” he answered. “Why, do you have a better offer?”

“Enjolras needs to practice for the debate. You’re the only “outside party” who won’t go easy on him.”

It didn’t seem to be a request, but there was no way in hell Grantaire was turning the offer down. He gave her a sudden, fierce grin. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

__

The sun had already set by the time Courfeyrac pressed the buzzer to Cosette’s apartment, and he pulled his scarf tighter against the cold as he waited for her to let him up. Her building was nicer than any undergraduate/campaign aide’s apartment had any right to be, thanks to a generous father. It was why they had chosen her as the usual host when they all got together.

Luckily, it didn’t take too long for her to buzz the door open, and the warmth air inside was a welcome relief. Most of the group was already there by the time he got upstairs. Bossuet was pouring drinks in the kitchen, and Courfeyrac gladly accepted the wine he offered. He didn’t like to show it, but he was a little on edge at not being present for the debate. There was no expectation he would be, of course, but it was one of the biggest nights of the election and he wished he could be at Enjolras’ side.

On the TV, Anderson Cooper introduced a panel of undecided voters who would be watching the debate, prompting Éponine to throw popcorn at the screen. “Undecided! Ha!”

“It is only the first debate,” Cosette chided gently. “Save the popcorn, for now.”

Courfeyrac slid onto the couch beside Jehan, who gave him a soft smile and cuddled up against his side. Courfeyrac took a quick mental note of everyone in the room: Éponine, Cosette, Joly, Bossuet, and Feuilly already knew, and would die before leaking their relationship to the press.

But speaking of the press—Cosette had been getting Grantaire to come to more and more of these get-togethers, and…. Sure enough, that was Grantaire emerging from the bathroom. While Courfeyrac liked the man, he couldn’t be sure what would happen if a journalist were to find out.  
They caught each other’s eyes, Courfeyrac showing nothing but calm while Grantaire looked far too knowing. He tilted his bottle in their direction in silent acknowledgment. Courfeyrac would have to talk to him later, but since he showed no shock at finding them appearing like more than just coworkers, Courfeyrac’s worry was eased. He leaned back against Jehan and took a drink of his wine.

On the screen, the moderator introduced the Republican incumbent, then the Democratic challenger. They all booed for both—the spineless Democrat had only squeaked by in the primaries by agreeing with everyone’s opinion, and the other guy was a Republican.

Finally, Enjolras was introduced. In a sharp suit and red tie, with his hair gleaming under the lights, he looked every inch a leader. Fox News’ hosts often thundered about how his good looks were the only reason he was popular at all. But it was obvious to Courfeyrac that Enjolras’ radiance came from his ideals, not his appearance.

The first question was about gun control. The other candidates gave rehearsed talking points, about “keeping our children safe” and “liberty” respectively.

Then Enjolras began to speak, and the knot of worry in Courfeyrac’s shoulders loosened. Around the room, a small sigh of relief was shared. Working in politics, it was their job to assume the worst and plan for it. But Enjolras at a debate— well, he had been practicing for this quite literally all his life. He spoke clearly, without the politician-speak or the pivots around a question to better suit his purposes. When the situation demanded it he became powerful and animated, but never looked out of control or blustery.

In short, he blew the other guys out of the water. No one needed CNN’s fancy analysis graphs at the bottom of the screen to prove it.

When the debate finally ended and Cosette clicked off the TV, silence hung in the living room. For a moment, they could all see the world that Enjolras’ words had created—a future above partisan politics and powerful special interests, where the people’s voices were heard, where everyone truly could pursue happiness. It was like a spell, and they wondered at the world that might be.

Courfeyrac closed his eyes and tipped his head onto Jehan’s shoulder. Tomorrow there would be media and analysis to deal with. But for now, he would sleep, and dream of the future.


	2. Florida

There was something deeply deceptive about Florida, Jehan mused. All anyone ever thought about was the light and dance beats of Miami or the childish excitement of Disneyworld. No one ever mentioned how the majority of the state was redneck paradise. He pictured the shininess of the two cities flashing so brightly across the state that it cast all the trailer parks into deep murky shadows. 

He informed Courfeyrac that Florida had lied to him. Laughing, Courfeyrac quoted a woman he had talked to at the last stop: “They say that the further north you go, the further South you get.”

Of course, Jehan knew it was the more rural votes that they had to court. With two young, liberal candidates, southern Florida was a lock. Enjolras’ fluent Spanish had even managed to warm over some of the Cubans in Miami, a political miracle. But Florida was serious business when it came to the Electoral College, hence the current tour. 

The sound of raised voices came from behind him, and Jehan twisted around to see what was going on. He shouldn’t have bothered, really. It was Enjolras and Grantaire going at each other again. 

He rolled his eyes at Courfeyrac, who was sitting across from him with his feet in Jehan’s lap as he edited a speech. “I think it was those two that Robert Frost had in mind when he wrote about the end of the world.”

“Mm, but neither’s really hatred and ice, are they? It’s fire against fire.”

Jehan poked Courfeyrac’s foot in mock outrage. “You have no soul for the poetry of the dynamic of opposites – light and shadow, two sides to one coin…” Struck with inspiration, he pulled a pen out of his hair and scribbled something on his lower leg. 

As the noise increased enough to disrupt his work, Courfeyrac finally looked up. “Get a room!” he shouted, making Jehan snort.

“Oh god, just imagine…”

“ _Something_ would very certainly explode.” Courfeyrac’s expressive face lapsed into seriousness suddenly. “Jehan… I think Grantaire has caught on to us.”

Jehan was not the least bit surprised by this, nor did he pretend to be. “He’s become practically part of the family over the last four months. He’d be a fairly awful journalist if he still hadn’t realized.”

“No, but… this is the sort of thing that—“

Jehan’s voice became uncharacteristically matter-of-fact, and he fixed Courfeyrac with a level stare. “You are doing absolutely nothing wrong. You have not deceived the American people in any way. And you are most certainly not going to try to break this off out of any misplaced sense of duty.”

He could see Courfeyrac relax, the worries that he likely didn’t even realize he had in the first place disappearing. Courfeyrac had gone into politics into the first place out of the strength of his love for the people, and it was that love that kept him going when the political maneuvering got overwhelming. Jehan loved him for it, but he couldn’t help but be a little selfish at times. Courfeyrac had given everything for the American people; this was the one thing that was theirs. 

Jehan continued more gently. “Grantaire may be many things, but he _is_ fair—if he hasn’t broken the story yet, he’s not going to spring it on us at the end of October or anything. Talk to him.”

Courfeyrac gave him a grateful smile. Catching up Jehan’s ink-stained hand, he pressed a kiss to the back of his knuckles. 

“However did I get by without you, Jean Prouvaire?”

__

“CRISIS!” bellowed Joly across the office.

Bossuet looked up. “Should I apologize now?”

“No, it’s not you, although you’re almost certainly going to have to deal with it. I should be apologizing to you, in fact.” Stepping over an intern, he collapsed heavily into his swivel chair, flinging a computer printout onto Bossuet’s side of the desk.

“Courfeyrac’s a bad influence on your dramatic tendencies,” Bossuet commented mildly, scanning the paper. “Ah.”

“’Ah’?! One of my volunteers has been accused of stealing! This is bad, this is really bad.”

Bossuet pulled a legal pad closer. “We’ll deal with it. Tell me what you know.”

There was a reason that Bossuet was in charge of dealing with the pit of vipers that was the media. Something in his steadfastly cheerful presence made everyone relax. Reporters both loved and hated him: he was so unassuming and warm that press inquiries were a breeze, but was only later that they realized he had given him exactly as much information as he had wanted, and nothing more. Even Joly, who’d practically grown up with the man, wasn’t immune to the calming effect of Bossuet’s presence. (He sighed internally. He wasn’t immune to _anything_.)

“Okay. One of the door-to-door canvassers in Denver was invited inside a house and accepted, specifically breaking the _very first rule_. The owner later alerted the police that a bracelet that had been lying on her coffee table was missing. No one’s been arrested yet, but a local conservative blogger caught wind and wrote about it, and the story’s begun circulating around twitter.”

Bossuet finished writing down the information. “And here I was expecting a dull afternoon. If you wouldn’t mind getting in touch with the canvass office—unfortunately, the volunteer will have to be fired as quickly and quietly as possible. I’ll take care of the rest.” He leaned across to touch Joly’s arm. “It’ll be fine.”

And damn him, but Joly couldn’t help but believe him.

__

Grantaire was just gearing up for a truly spectacular counterpoint on the second amendment when Éponine poked her head out from the front section of the bus. “Enjolras! Need you for a second.”

Enjolras shot him a look that might possibly be considered apologetic, and made his way up to the front. Behind him, Grantaire slouched back in his seat. Arguing with Enjolras was the only way to make these interminably long drives bearable. (Well, that and alcohol.) Playing devil’s advocate just made it more fun, and it wasn’t like he had any ethical objections to doing so. 

He ignored the voice in his head that told him that pointed how it was getting harder and harder to stay so disinterested as he spent more time with Enjolras. It was just overexposure to idealism, that was all. A couple days on the Hill and he’d remember who he was again.

He looked up as Courfeyrac took the newly vacated seat across from him, and smirked. “I was wondering when we’d be having this conversation.”

“Jehan and I.”

Grantaire raised an eyebrow. “No immediate denials? You’ll never make a real politician at this rate.”

Courfeyrac’s face was usually open and honest, endearing him to voters immediately. But when he needed to, it was as blank as a champion poker player, a skill that had won quite a bit of money off the rest of the staff in the past. It was that mask that he wore now, betraying nothing.

“I’m not here to play games with you, Grantaire. You’re a journalist and you’re privy to this information. I need to know what you plan to do.”

“A scandalous affair with a top staffer? That could get me quite a few headlines, you know. Ruin the campaign, if I timed it right.” His flippant tone did not reveal the uncomfortable twist in his stomach at the words. _Fucking Enjolras_.

“There’s nothing scandalous about it. The American people already know my sexuality, and neither of us is cheating on someone else. There has been no betrayal of trust here.”

“You know that’s not how the talking heads will see it.” 

“The talking heads spent three whole days discussing if the size of Enjolras’ tie pin was appropriate. That means nothing.”

Grantaire could play the asshole all day, but he was also a professional. He leaned forward. “Courfeyrac, I need to know a few things before I make a decision. First, how long has this been going on?”

“Since just after the Iowa caucuses, so… about ten months.” The poker face slipped for half a second, revealing a sudden warmth in Courfeyrac’s eyes.

“Has he been given any promotions within the campaign since then?”

Courfeyrac did not look surprised by the implication. “No, he was already chief speechwriter at that point.”

“Enjolras knows?”

“Of course.” 

“Have you ever spoken on the record about your personal life? And to be clear, I will double-check this later.”

“I’ve been open about my sexuality, of course, but I’ve never said anything about being in a relationship one way or the other.”

Grantaire hmmed, and leaned backwards. “I’m not going to lie to you. This is something of an ethical dilemma for me.” He paused for a beat, just long enough to keep Courfeyrac on the edge of his seat, before grinning suddenly. “Good thing I don’t have any ethics in the first place. Although if I keep finding fucking flowers in my hair, _Jehan_ , this will be on the front page of every newspaper in America.”

Courfeyrac exhaled a quick laugh and stood up, clapping Grantaire on the shoulder. “I appreciate it. Truly.” He turned to leave.

“Courfeyrac,” Grantaire caught his arm, serious again. “You’ll need to be careful with this. Not every journalist is as sick of the private-life-scrutiny as I am, and you two aren’t exactly subtle.”

Courfeyrac gave a half smile. “We’re only so obvious in front of the family.” His smile grew at the look on Grantaire’s face, and he returned to his seat to let Grantaire deal with _that_ one in privacy. 

__

“You’re sure? Completely?” The woman on the phone reassured Joly for the fourth time, the exasperation in her voice becoming more pronounced. “Okay. Don’t send anyone back out until I call you back. Thanks, Jan.” He hung up and turned to Bossuet, absentmindedly rubbing the side of his nose in thought. 

“This is strange. The Denver office is absolutely certain that no one has been sent out to the area where the alleged theft took place in at least two weeks.”

Bossuet nodded as he skimmed an email from one of his contacts in Colorado. “I don’t mean to imply anything without the full facts yet, but it appears the woman making the accusation has made _substantial_ contributions to Republican Super PACS this year. And… there it is. She’s been put on the do-not-canvass lists for both the ACLU and Planned Parenthood, because she accused volunteers from both organizations of stealing from her several years ago. Want to get me some lunch while I make the last couple of calls to deal with this?”

“You are a _lifesaver_. I’ll get you whatever you want.”

“Whatever’s closest. If there are food trucks nearby, that’s perfect.”

Joly stared at him in horror. “It’s like you _want_ e. coli. Feuilly, I can hear you laughing.”

“That’s because I’m not even trying to hide it,” Feuilly said from two desks over.

“You won’t be laughing with an infected intestine!”

__

There were many (many, many) nice things about not being a politician, but one of the best was not having to dress up for these events. As Enjolras changed in the back room and Courfeyrac fretted over what the humidity was doing to his hair, Grantaire kicked his flip-flopped feet up onto the seat and smirked at Éponine. The risk of getting a high heel thrown at his head was worth it.

“Éponine! Where’s my white button-down?” Enjolras emerged, and Grantaire swallowed hard suddenly. He might be fantastic at lying to himself, but there was no point in denying how very attractive Enjolras was. The rest of the press certainly went off about it at every opportunity. But there was something quite different between the powerfully handsome Candidate Enjolras in a sharp suit with flashing eyes, and this Enjolras, in bare feet and an undershirt, hair messy and sticking up at the back.

He had the sudden urge to run his own hands through Enjolras’ hair, to see if it was as soft as it looked, to play with the curls at the back of his neck. 

Enjolras caught Grantaire’s stare and gave him a quick smile. Grantaire turned back to his notebook, hiding the flush of his cheeks. What the hell.

Unbidden, his thoughts returned to Courfeyrac’s earlier comment about family. It was obvious that the staffers considered each other family—a patchwork, dysfunctional, mildly incestuous one, but a family nonetheless. And he wasn’t blind to the way Cosette kept getting him to come to events with a disarming smile. But he hadn’t realized until Courfeyrac had said it the extent to which he had become part of the group. 

This campaign was playing hell with his hard-boiled journalist reputation. By the time November came around, he’d be Katie fucking Couric.


	3. Damage Control

“Did you see it?” Joly called as Combeferre walked in.

“Yes, I saw it.”

“What are you going to do?” asked Bossuet to Combeferre’s retreating back. His only answer was “Senior staff, meeting in 5” and the click of a door closing. The noise swelled again, an undercurrent of tension in the air; Combeferre’s lack of answer had put everyone even more on edge.

Bossuet rolled his chair over to Jehan’s desk. “You saw it, right?”

Jehan gave him a Look from under his wildly out of control hair. “Did anyone not see it? Courfeyrac left early this morning, I think he’s with Enjolras still.” There weren’t any flowers on his person this morning; Jehan was too focused on damage control to get distracted on his way into the office.

Grantaire appeared at the door, running a hand through his already messy curls. “What the _hell_ was he thinking? I’d like to believe he wasn’t thinking anything, but the hell of it is he knew exactly what he was saying. Fuck.”

Jehan wasn’t too distracted to notice how Grantaire had apparently given up on trying to pretend he was an impartial observer to the campaign. Too bad it had to come at a time like this. 

Grantaire did, however, remember that he was not actually part of their staff, and stayed outside to type furiously on his laptop while the staff marched into Combeferre’s office with the air of a funeral procession.

Combeferre steepled his fingers and surveyed them. “I assume you are already aware of the situation. This morning, Enjolras was scheduled to appear on the Today Show.” He turned his computer around, displaying the screen, and hit play on the video clip.

“Now, President Haffley’s been making quite a few comments about you lately,” Matt Lauer was saying in a faux-jovial tone. “He said the other day that being a father is the hardest job he’s ever had, including the presidency, and that maybe you should wait a few years until you’ve had that experience! What’s your thinking on that?”

The camera switched to Enjolras. He had gone very still, eyes flashing. “I suppose that Mr. Haffley needs to put his children as his campaign platform in the absence of any achievements or ideals that he can point to. This focus on the personal life is an insult to the American people. They’re looking to elect a president, not a father.”

Combeferre paused the video as Enjolras finished speaking. His quiet rage was chilling even in two dimensions—none of the staff was looking forward to his arrival at the office.

“Clearly we have a situation here. This clip is already circulating on the news channels and the internet, so we have no chance of trying to control the story now. Éponine, I need numbers.”

She gave him an unimpressed look. “This happened 80 minutes ago. There are no numbers yet. But I can tell you that we’ve been weak with men over 40 and people with children already. This is only going to hurt that. I’d put us at dropping 7 or 8 points on this.”

“Bossuet, how’s the media framing the story?”

“Generally, it’s about Enjolras’ ‘shocking dismissal of the importance of family.’” He said, fingers sketching quote marks in the air. “Fox has been pushing pretty heavily on ‘why won’t he talk about his personal life? What could he be hiding?’ And on twitter, we’re seeing a lot of talk about how cold and unlikeable he comes off.”

Combeferre nodded, looking at each of them in turn. “Suggestions.”

“The first priority is to clarify the statement,” Éponine started. “Jehan, can you twist what he said to suggest something else?”

Jehan tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Hm, how about implying that he’s more focused on the job than the others?”

“Good, but emphasize his dedication to the American people. We’re trying to avoid making him look like an indifferent professor.” A few people in the room smiled at that, despite the severity of the situation. It was very hard to imagine anyone more passionate or dedicated to the people than Enjolras. It was only when he got frustrated that he turned cold and sharp, and this campaign was a never-ending source of frustration.

“Should we put Courfeyrac out there a little more, do some damage control?” Joly asked.

“Not a bad idea. Cosette, what’s his schedule like for today and tomorrow?”

She looked up from her clipboard. “Donor meetings most of today, then tonight he’s flying to New York to speak at NYU and attending a charity function in the evening.”

“Uh, Grantaire just texted me,” Jehan said slowly. “He says ‘Put Courfeyrac on the Colbert Report.’ That’s almost scary.” There was a pause as everyone glanced around, as though expecting Grantaire to be sitting unnoticed in the room somewhere.

Combeferre sighed. “Much as I hate to take his advice, that’s perfect. Cosette, talk to his assistant, get her to schedule it. Bossuet and Jehan, you’re working on that statement. Éponine, I need a strategy for the next week. And Joly… keep doing whatever you were doing.”

He pulled his laptop towards himself, clearly dismissing them. With a situation like this, there was no time for niceties. These sorts of stupid comments and controversies were what killed campaigns like theirs. They could spend months crafting beautiful speeches, perfect policy strategies, budget balancing plans... and it could all be undone by a careless remark. It had happened before—and they were challenging an incumbent as an independent campaign. Granted, President Haffley’s approval ratings were abysmal, but when it came to reelection, the choice was often the devil you knew. 

Alone in his office, Combeferre swore quietly under his breath.

__

Grantaire’s work ethic was all-or-nothing. He spent so much time drinking surreptitiously and irritating the staff that newer interns often assumed he was some vagrant that had snuck in, instead of a Pulitzer-prize winning journalist who had been printed on the front page of most major newspapers in the country. But once he got down to work, you could put a glass of the finest scotch in the world beside him and he wouldn’t even notice. So it wasn’t surprising that he was the last to notice when Enjolras walked in.

The room had gone deathly quiet. Everyone was so busy pretending not to look at Enjolras that three of the graphics staff wound up staring intently at a potted fern. Grantaire, meanwhile, was putting the final changes on the first sentence of his latest article before sending it off to the editors. Into the uncomfortable stillness, he let out a hugely dramatic stretch and looked up with a cocky grin on his face, ready to go bother someone.

The grin died when he met Enjolras’ eyes. His face went hard and bitter in an instant. 

“What the fuck was that?” he asked, voice low. 

Enjolras looked dangerous. There was a cold look to his eyes and a hard twist to his mouth. Grantaire often compared him to Apollo, god of light and sun, but in that moment it was easy to remember that Apollo had also been a deadly warrior. He looked about ready to say something cutting, but Grantaire didn’t let him, rising to his feet. He leaned forward, arms slightly in front of him as though he was preparing for a fight.

“Where did you get the idea that insulting parents would be a good way to win a presidential campaign? While you’re at it, why don’t you go after the military? Or how about teachers? Bet that’ll win the voters over in a heartbeat.”

“His comment was out of line,” Enjolras said coldly. “As are you, Grantaire.”

“Out of line? Of course it was fucking out of line, he’s a politician! That’s the whole point! What do you expect him to say? ‘Actually, my opponent’s a better option for this country, you should vote for him’?”

“I expect him to act with a dignity befitting his office. Trying to mislead the American people by making absurd comments on my personal life is disgraceful, and--”

Grantaire cut him off with a harsh laugh. “Enjolras, of course politics is a dirty game. If it wasn’t, you’d have no reason to run in the first place. At this rate, you’ll never be able to change anything. So much for your brighter tomorrow.” The mocking edge in his tone provoked Enjolras, as was his intention.

Eyes narrowed, Enjolras went for the jugular. “What does it matter to you, anyway? You’re just here for the story. You don’t believe in any of this.”

“I believe in _you_ , asshole!” Grantaire shouted. “God help me, I’ve known too many politicians to ever think there was hope for the future of this country. Sometimes an idealist makes it to the House, and you know what happens to them? They get crushed! A couple nice dinners with the lobbyists, and suddenly re-election’s a real priority. No one ever tries for the higher offices, because they get laughed out of the conventions! And then you come along, and there’s no way anyone’s going to remove your idealism without surgery. And I can’t help but start to think that maybe for once, we don’t have to choose between the lesser of two evils. That maybe for once, politics in America could be something _more_. It’s because of you! Everyone in this room, they’re all here because they believe in you! _I_ believe in you!”

Grantaire’s harsh breathing was the only sound in the room. No one was bothering to hide their stares anymore. Enjolras’ eyes were wide, the anger in them replaced by surprise. Something softened in his face as he looked at Grantaire. 

Grantaire looked almost frightened, as though he hadn’t meant to say so much. He met Enjolras’ eyes for a moment, and tension was thick in the air. He swallowed, throat bobbing, then grabbed his heavily-spiked coffee and bolted. 

Outside, he leaned heavily against the brick wall and drained the cold remnants of his coffee. When it was empty, he tossed it aside in favor of drinking straight from the flask in his inner pocket. 

He closed his eyes and tipped his head back against the wall. “ _Fuck_ ,” he said with feeling.

___

Jehan pulled out his phone. _How are you doing?_ he sent to Courfeyrac. He wasn’t sure whether or not the text would go through right away. But it seemed Courfeyrac hadn’t gotten to his meeting yet, because his phone buzzed with a reply immediately.

_Two hours with a furious Enjolras? I think I have PTSD._

_He just got here. We all saw what kind of mood he’s in. I’m so sorry._

_Who got the worst of it? Aside from me, I mean._

_R, of course._

Jehan hesitated before sending. He wanted to add something sweet to make Courfeyrac feel better, but politicians had to be paranoid about their cell phones, so he sent the message as it was. There was no response, so he assumed the donor had arrived. He tried to return to crafting a statement for the press to address the situation, but it was hard to focus with Enjolras’ bad mood so pervasive in the office. 

__

The door to Enjolras’ office opened. He held up a finger without looking up. “Yes, that’s going to be fine. Someone will get in touch with you about the details shortly. I appreciate it.”

He ended the phone call and looked up to see Jehan standing in his office. He wasn’t particularly surprised; he had known Jehan for years. Where others saw a delicate, flighty poet, he knew to look past the flowers and cat sweaters to the steel spine beneath. 

He gestured to the other seat in the office, and Jehan took it. “Enjolras. I’m going to say three things to you now, and you’re going to listen to them. 

First of all, Grantaire’s right. You have to play the game if you want to win. I know you hate it, so do I. Do you think I enjoy writing political nonsense in an attempt to tone down the fierceness of your points?”

He ticked off a finger. “Second. This was a mistake, and it could be a costly one. What you cannot do is sit in here and sulk and act like you already lost.” Enjolras opened his mouth to challenge that, but Jehan continued smoothly. “Those people out there are all following you on this. You want to lead the country someday? Start by leading those people.”

Jehan leaned forward. “And finally. Enjolras, I know you would give up anything for the American people. But right now, what you have to give up is just a little of your honesty. You have to sacrifice something of yourself for the cause. Are you prepared to do that?”

Finished, he stood up, paused for a second, then leaned across the desk to lay a soft kiss on the top of Enjolras’ bowed head. Enjolras listened to his quiet footsteps fade away. The click of the office door closing left him alone with his thoughts. 

Jehan and Grantaire were right. With honesty becoming such a scarce commodity, he was unwilling to lie to himself, and he knew that they spoke the truth. This was the part of politics that he despised: putting on a fake face for the cameras, speaking in catchy soundbites instead of the truth, living permanently in a moral gray area. When he had turned to politics, he had done so with the knowledge that he could change the game. Neither money nor power interested him, aside from their usefulness to do good. He was incorruptible—not a boast but a fact. 

One day, he knew, the country would be run by honest people who were elected on their merit and dedication. But he was the agent of change, not the result. If he needed to tone himself down for the people, as Combeferre was constantly making him do, he would do so with the knowledge that the world he was helping create would be one in which it was no longer necessary. Four years was more than enough time to take strides towards a better tomorrow. 

___

There was silence in the room again when Enjolras stepped out from his office. He walked to the middle and surveyed the staff thoughtfully for a moment. 

“My friends, I owe you an apology. I do not appreciate enough the sacrifices you have made for me, and I am indebted to you all for it.” He paused and ran a hand through his hair before continuing, more slowly. “This campaign has been hard on us all. I find myself getting caught up in the everyday frustrations and becoming blinded to the work that we’re doing. I know you share my vision, and I ask that we all remind each other of that future when we’re low.”

His voice rose, ringing. “If we hold tomorrow in our hearts, we cannot and _will_ not lose this election. If the numbers are bad, we will change them. If the people do not agree with us, we will show them the truth. And we will win Ohio. We’ll win Florida. And we will win the hearts and minds of the American people.”

Once again, there was silence in the room. This time, however, it was the awed silence of people who have witnessed greatness. It was broken not by voices, but by a sudden outpouring of applause that seemed to begin in every corner of the room simultaneously. And Enjolras stood in the middle, head bowed, awash in the love and hopes of his friends. 

__

Grantaire had only been in the coffee shop on the street corner for about an hour when he heard footsteps approaching him. 

“I knew you wouldn’t stay out in the cold for too long,” said Enjolras, setting two coffees on the table. He pushed one towards Grantaire, a peace offering. 

Grantaire searched Enjolras’ face. Inasmuch as his proud features could show regret, he looked apologetic. His mouth was soft, but he held Grantaire’s gaze. 

“You were right,” he said. “I forget, sometimes, that politics is a far messier sport than any war. And I appreciate the reminder, no matter how... aggressively it may be delivered.”

Grantaire couldn’t begrudge this man anything, least of all when he was this open. “You’re forgiven, as long as you’ve said as much to your staff.”

Enjolras smiled slightly. “Yes, I gave a speech. It was quite a good one.” He paused as though weighing his options, then leaned forward across the table. “Grantaire. Did you mean what you said in there?”

He wanted to lie. He wanted to claim that he had only said what he knew would throw off Enjolras in the middle of the argument. But it seemed lately that honesty was weighing heavily on everyone’s minds, and he didn’t want to add another layer to the already-complicated dynamic between them. 

So softly that it was nearly inaudible over the noise of the coffee shop, Grantaire said, “Yes.”

Enjolras said nothing for a long moment. When Grantaire finally dared to look up, he had to catch his breath at the sheer power of the look in Enjolras’ eyes. There was joy in there, and hope, and a million other emotions that Grantaire could not begin to name. They held each others' eyes for a long time as the coffee shop bustled around them.

Eventually, Enjolras simply said, “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys have been so amazingly supportive, thank you! Let me know if there's anything unclear, since I know this one got a little extra politics-y :)


	4. Under Attack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for violence and slightly darker themes in this one.

Éponine stared at the email on her smartphone for a full thirty seconds before tilting her head back and letting out an honest-to-god cackle.

Bossuet, in the middle of pulling on his jacket, startled so badly that he flailed his arm and knocked over a pile of papers. Across the room, Grantaire shouted “What the _fuck_?” as he tried to mop up the coffee that he had spilled on his shirt. A cluster of interns on their way out the door clung to each other and stared at Éponine with terrified eyes, likely convinced that this was the final proof that she was an actual witch.

Éponine ignored them all, gleefully forwarding the email to Combeferre.

A moment later, he leaned out of his office. “Are you—“

“Guaranteed.”

“When?”

“No more than 20 minutes.”

Only those who knew Combeferre well could see the slightly malicious edge in his grin. Éponine happened to be one of those people, and she matched his grin.

After a moment, he turned away to scan the office at large. “Senior staff, if you wouldn’t mind staying an extra half an hour or so? There’s been a development.”

There were some half-hearted groans, but no one really minded. They were all far too curious about what was going on. Most of them wound up staying late or working from home every night anyway, so it wasn’t a particularly uncommon occurrence.

The interns and lower-level staffers bundled into their coats and said their goodbyes, leaving behind the senior staff, plus Feuilly and Grantaire. Feuilly may have only been head of the graphics department, but his fierce love for all of them had allowed him to slip easily into their ranks (plus he usually got a ride with Combeferre, so it wasn’t like he was going to leave early anyway). No one bothered to question Grantaire’s presence.

“Not that I don’t love a good sense of drama, but are you going to tell us what we’re waiting for at some point?” Jehan asked, flicking bits of paper into Grantaire’s hair where he sat on the desk.

Éponine ignored him in favor of turning on CNN.

“And I thought you were dramatic,” whispered Bossuet in an undertone to Joly. Overhearing the comment, Éponine turned to hiss at them.

“My god, she’s like a cat,” Joly stage-whispered back, good-naturedly.

“Children,” said Combeferre, loosening his tie and rolling up the sleeves of his button-down. “If you wouldn’t mind paying attention?”

Dutifully they turned to the screen, where the anchor was saying “Up next: some breaking news for the presidential campaign. A shocking video has leaked that claims to show a young Jeff Haffley saying some pretty controversial things about women’s rights. What does this mean for the president’s reelection hopes? We’ll be right back, on CNN.”

The screen flicked over to an insurance ad, as the staff stared at each other in disbelief.

“No way did we get that lucky,” said Grantaire, but the beginnings of a smile were tugging at his eyes.

“Éponine, what do you know about the video?” asked Bossuet. 

“You’ll see it in a minute, but it’s bad enough that he’s going to take a serious hit with women’s groups. Right on the heels of the birth control controversy, too!” She clapped her hands in glee.

Feuilly spoke up for the first time. “How certain can we be that it’s him? I mean, you would think that this would have come out four years ago.”

“You can’t say much for Hoynes, but the man does have an excellent team for turning up dirt,” Joly pointed out. “He’s not above playing dirty.”

Combeferre adjusted his glasses thoughtfully. “If this _was_ Hoynes, you can bet that his statement on the video will be online in a matter of minutes. Speaking of which – Bossuet, Jehan?”

Jehan had already started scribbling notes on bits of paper. Grantaire stared at him. “How can you be writing a response already? You haven’t even seen the video!”

“We’re about to,” Bossuet pointed out. The commercial break had ended, and CNN was introducing the video.

__

The half-hour wait turned into an hour, and then two, as they formulated responses. Gradually, the discussion turned towards more theoretical subjects and debates over campaign strategy. Camaraderie was warm in the air, and the whole team was in high spirits. After the serious hit they had taken with Enjolras’ nasty comment on the Today Show, this video clip felt like a blessing from above.

They only realized how late it had gotten when Jehan began to snore softly, head pillowed on his notebooks and hair spread across his desk. Combeferre gently woke him as everyone started gathering their coats and bags. 

They said their goodbyes in the street and set off in different directions. Éponine was only a few blocks away when she heard a car behind her. The window rolled down, and Combeferre leaned over. “Would you like a ride?”

She laughed at him, not unkindly. “I live on the other side of town from you. I’ll take the T.”

“Are you sure? It’s late.”

“Combeferre, go. I’ll be fine.”

He looked unconvinced, but nodded and drove off. She pulled her arms around herself for warmth, thinking longingly of the warmth of his car for a second. But she hadn’t gotten to where she was by relying on others for help, and she wasn’t going to start now. Combeferre may have been one of the best people she knew, but old habits died hard. Hitching her bag a little higher on her shoulder, she set off towards the subway entrance.

The after-work crowds had slowed, leaving only a few people in her train car. Éponine gave them the sort of once-over that comes from a lifetime of watching out for yourself, but most of her attention was on the day’s victories. She ran scenarios in her head: if Haffley responds by doing X, then the numbers will do Y. If Haffley does Z, how should Enjolras respond?

She shifted her papers to one arm, pulling out her keys to unlock the door. It was already unlocked, and she pushed it open and then froze.

Her distraction fell away in an instant, leaving razor-sharp focus.

Her instincts may have made her a brilliant political strategist, but they were still fundamentally survival instincts. She knew she had locked the door that morning. There was no way she would leave her door open. And even in the darkness, she could tell something was wrong.

_Someone had been here._

She dropped her papers to the floor, hitting the light switch on the wall. When the light revealed no one in the living room or kitchen, she edged over to grab the largest knife from the chopping block.

Swallowing hard, she grasped it tightly and began to stalk slowly around the apartment. It wasn’t a big place, and it didn’t take her long to see that no one was in the bedroom or bathroom. She mentally checked kidnapper off the list of possibilities, leaving robbery as the most likely option. But she didn’t leave much of value in her home and nothing appeared to have been stolen.

She didn’t doubt her instincts, though. When she returned to the living room, she realized what had set off her mental alarm.

There was a picture missing.

She had only been living in the apartment since the start of the campaign, so it was sparsely decorated, but she had put up a few pictures on the walls to make it feel more homey. Most were of her and her brother, and the most recent was one that Jehan had given her—a picture of the campaign team, including Enjolras and Courfeyrac, sitting together at Cosette’s place after the second debate. They were smiling at the camera, arms around each other. Jehan had printed up the pictures and given everyone a framed copy.

Knife still clutched in her hand, Éponine stared at the empty spot on the wall where that picture used to be.

Mechanically, she went to gather up her papers from the floor and lock the door securely. She returned the knife to the kitchen, replacing it with the handgun from her bedside table. And then she let out a shuddering sob, clutching at the kitchen table as the world spun around her. Eyes closed tightly to hold in the tears, she choked on air that seemed polluted to her. Someone had been here, in this apartment, breathing her fucking air.

She pulled out her phone and was halfway through dialing someone—she wasn’t sure who—when she stopped herself. What was she going to do? Call Combeferre crying because someone had stolen a picture? Get a grip, she told herself. You’re no stranger to crime.

She spent the night sitting on the kitchen floor with her laptop, a cup of coffee, and her gun.

__

In the next few days, she returned to work like normal. Enjolras’ barely-disguised outrage at the Haffley video had scored him far more points than Hoynes’ smug response, and hope was almost a tangible presence in the office. They had regained the points they had lost after last week’s fiasco and more. When she shouted out that they had overtaken Haffley in the polls and the office erupted in joyful cheers, she could almost forget the fear lurking in the back of her mind.

But she barely slept and she kept her gun on her at all times. She caught her friends exchanging worried looks when they thought she wasn’t watching, but she was glad that they didn’t intrude. Most of the office was sleep-deprived at this point in the campaign, so it was easy to write off the dark circles under her eyes.

It was four days later that everything went to hell.

Cosette and Éponine arrived at the office at the same time, and were laughing with each other about Joly’s antics (he had read online that cholera was going to sweep America, and kept looking his symptoms up on WebMD to ensure that he was dying). As they showed their ID badges to Nora at the front desk, she interrupted their laughter.

“Ms. Thénardier? A package was dropped off for you this morning.”

Éponine frowned at the outside of the envelope—it had no address, just her first name written in Sharpie. She slid a fingernail under the tab to open it, and pulled out the contents.

Then she turned white as a sheet and collapsed backwards against the security desk.

“Éponine! Oh my god!”

She was dimly aware of Cosette’s voice, but it was hard to pay attention to anything beyond her terror. Her vision narrowed and she felt lightheaded, like the room was spinning around her.

Two gentle hands on her face brought her back into awareness, and she blinked up at Cosette’s concerned eyes.

“You’re going to be okay. Come with me, all right?”

Éponine allowed herself to be led to the elevator and down the hall. She didn’t realize where they were going until Cosette opened the door and Combeferre looked up from his desk. His face tightened with alarm and he hurried to help Éponine into a chair as Cosette closed the door behind them.

“What’s happened?” he asked, looking between the two of them.

Cosette spoke up. “This package came for her this morning.” She handed the envelope to Combeferre.

Éponine heard his sharp inhale, and knew what he was looking at. The picture of all of them that had been taken from her house. Someone had used a knife to viciously scratch out an X over every single face, and then returned it to the frame as a last insult.

This was no longer something personal. Everyone in the picture was involved, now: Joly, Bossuet, Feuilly, Bahorel, Grantaire, Cosette, Combeferre, Jehan. Courfeyrac. _Enjolras_.

Cosette handed her a cup of water, and she drank it with trembling hands. Combeferre opened up the frame and slid out the picture, handling it with a tissue. To prevent smearing fingerprints, she realized. That was Comberre, always thoroughly competent.

As Combeferre held the picture, she saw that the violent scratches weren’t the only additions to the picture. Someone had written the letters “PM” on the back on black marker.

Éponine didn’t realize her breathing was getting shallow again until Combeferre knelt before her and took her hands. “Éponine, breathe with me. In, out. That’s right. We’ll settle this, don’t worry.”

He paused, and something dark flashed in his eyes. “Now. Tell me everything.”

And she did. With Combeferre holding her hands and Cosette rubbing soothing circles on her back, she broke down and told the whole story. She told them about realizing someone had been in her apartment, about discovering the missing picture, about how she hadn’t slept for more than brief fifteen-minute intervals at a time since it had happened.

Combeferre’s eyes darkened in anger as she talked, but he never interrupted. When she finished, he spoke without looking away from her. “Cosette? Would you get ahold of Bahorel, please?”

Éponine was aware of Cosette leaving the room, but she couldn’t pay attention to much besides Combeferre’s comforting presence. “It _will_ be okay,” he told her, and she believed him.

__

The next few hours passed in a blur. Bahorel arrived, having left Enjolras with a different Secret Service agent temporarily. He and Combeferre spoke quietly, looking deadly serious. Bahorel was a giant teddy bear when he was off-duty, but at times like this no one could forget that he was trained to kill someone as efficiently as possible. 

At one point, Bahorel called someone. Éponine couldn’t hear what they said, but his face darkened in anger. 

“There’s no way of getting around the rules,” he told Combeferre. “I can’t get any more agents. Enjolras gets Secret Service protection, but that’s it.”

Combeferre nodded resignedly. “For now, we’ll have to be extra cautious. I’ll try to arrange for independent security.”

When they told her that she would need to stay with someone else, she barely protested. Cosette’s apartment was large enough for the both of them, and the security was enough that she thought she might be able to sleep soundly for once. 

__

Bossuet was worried. For a man with his luck, this was a surprisingly rare occurrence. Combeferre pulling him aside and telling him that he had been included in a threat, to stay with a friend tonight and be extra cautious—that had startled him, true. But seeing the quiet conversations around the room, as more and more of his friends came back from Combeferre’s office looking grave and making arrangements in hushed voices... he was scared for them. 

But he looked over at Joly, who looked terrified, and swallowed his own fear. Someone needed to keep them upright, that was his job. So he smiled, gave Joly a nudge, and said “slumber party tonight?”

They lived only two blocks apart, so it was just coincidence that they decided to stay at Joly’s. He’d spent many nights there, crashed on the couch or on Joly’s bed itself, depending on how tired (or drunk) they were. In the humid summer, when neither of them could sleep, he’d showed up at the front door with ice cream and the Star Wars box set.  
But the atmosphere as they drove back tonight was far different. They hadn’t been told the full details of what had happened, but it wasn’t hard to piece together that something had happened at Éponine’s that had threatened all of them. Bossuet knew they were to stay together for security reasons, but he couldn’t help but feel comforted by his best friend’s presence. The tension in the office made him feel twitchy, like his skin didn’t fit right.

He looked over at Joly from the passenger seat, his worried profile illuminated by the lights of passing cars. Bossuet put a reassuring hand on his knee, and the worry lines in his forehead smoothed out slightly. 

Then they arrived at Joly’s apartment to find the front door unlocked and a picture missing from his coffee table, and it all fell apart. 

Joly may have been a worrier, but at least his medical background ensured he was good in a crisis. Once they had ensured that no one else was in the apartment, he directed Bossuet to sit on the couch and got him a cup of tea as he called Combeferre, then the police. Then he sat down beside him. 

“Bossuet. Look at me. I’m right here.”

He clasped his hands tightly around the back of his friend’s neck, leaning forward and resting their foreheads together. Bossuet’s shaky breathing evened out and fell into the rhythm of Joly’s. They sat that way for a long moment, comforting each other with their closeness. 

Combeferre arrived before the police, still wearing his button-down but with flannel pants, clearly having dropped everything to race over. He looked as scared as either of them had ever seen him. But his voice was steady and comforting as he made sure they were both okay.

Joly began to tell him about the missing picture, and Combeferre put up a hand. “The one Jehan gave us all? The same thing happened to Éponine, that’s how this all started. Someone is doing this deliberately.” 

Bossuet rubbed Joly’s shoulder as he shivered. “Is everyone else okay?”

Combeferre nodded. “I sent out a text when I got your call. They’re all fine.”

They all jumped a little at the knock on the door, but it was only the police investigator, a delicate woman with a look of steel in her eyes. She introduced herself as Musichetta and proceeded to take their stories and berate Combeferre for not calling the police after the first incident. 

“We have Secret Sec—”

“If that had worked, I wouldn’t be here,” she cut him off. Bossuet fell a little in love with her in that moment. 

Once Combeferre was sufficiently apologetic, she sat down and explained to Joly and Bossuet what would happen. 

“The first priority at this point is to prevent this from happening again. Make sure everyone on your team upgrades their security as quickly as possible. Staying in groups was a good idea, keep doing that. And call me immediately if and when you get the picture back.” She handed them a business card with her number on it.

As they thanked her, she hesitated a moment, then touched their knees. Leaning in, she added with a bit of a smile, “Don’t let this distract you from your campaign, now. I’d hate to see your boy lose to those other assholes over something like this.”

Once she had left and Combeferre had returned to where Feuilly was waiting at his house, Joly turned to Bossuet. “I might be in love,” he said, grin slightly shaky but still warm. 

Bossuet laughed, unsurprised they were on the same page in this as well. “Well, I’m the one who has her phone number,” he said, holding up the business card between two fingers. 

“She’ll just have to agree to date both of us,” Joly said.

“That’s only if rock, paper, scissors doesn’t work out.”

They laughed together, and for a moment it was like there was nothing wrong.

__

Of course, when they did call Musichetta, it was because there was a brown package on Joly’s front porch two days later when they got home from work. They knew what to expect, but the image of their faces viciously scratched out still shocked them both. When Musichetta arrived, she was shooting off commands into her radio.

“It’s likely that the next break-in will be tonight, based on what happened last time,” she explained. “There are still enough of you out there that we don’t know who they’ll go for.”

Bossuet heard a note in her voice, and wondered what she wasn’t telling them. Beside him, Joly drew in a sharp breath. “You don’t think...”  
She looked between the two of them with a grim look on her pretty face, and nodded slowly. “Now that there’s more attention, we don’t know what to expect. Two break-ins in empty houses isn’t that bad, as these things go, but I can’t promise they’ll keep the same pattern.”

Joly grabbed at Bossuet’s knee in horror, imagining whoever was doing these awful things sneaking inside while one of their friends slept...

“We’re putting surveillance on the houses where everyone is staying tonight,” Musichetta added, noticing their concern. “They’re not getting away with anything.”

__

It was Jehan’s luck that Courfeyrac happened to be back in town that week. This whole ordeal was awful enough without having to worry about Courfeyrac being alone somewhere else in the country where he couldn’t physically verify that the other man was alright. They had known when they had started this relationship that they would be separate more often than not, at least while the campaign was running, and they accepted it as a worthwhile cost. But skype was barely enough at the best of times for someone as tactile as Jehan, and especially not now, when he needed comfort more than ever. 

Of course, there were advantages to this police-ordered sleepover situation, he thought as he watched Courfeyrac walk out of the kitchen carrying a mug and wearing nothing but flannel pants. Not like he wouldn’t have been here anyway, but it was nice to have an excuse. He accepted the proffered mug of tea gratefully, and moved to the side to make room for Courfeyrac on the couch. 

Courfeyrac ignored that, choosing to lie down along the length of the couch with his head in Jehan’s lap. 

“You look worried,” he said gently, reaching up to touch the corner of Jehan’s mouth.

Jehan twisted his head to kiss Courfeyrac’s fingertips. “It’s this whole situation. I can’t stand to see everyone so upset. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Combeferre like this.”

Courfeyrac smiled. “If you think Combeferre’s bad, you should have been there for the phone call when Enjolras found out.”

Jehan sipped his tea, picturing the situation very clearly. “Let me guess—he didn’t care at all that there was a threat against him, but had to be physically restrained from getting on a plane straight here when he heard the rest of us were involved?”

Courfeyrac looked startled for a second then laughed. “That was terrifyingly accurate. Our fearless chief is more of a Mama Bear than he likes to admit.”

“I wouldn’t want to be the guy responsible for all this once Enjolras gets here,” Jehan agreed. They both paused for a second, imagining Enjolras on the warpath, a golden god of vengeance. It was an awe-inspiring and terrifying vision.

“Still,” Courfeyrac said, completely serious for a moment. “His righteous anger wouldn’t have anything on mine if something happened to you.” 

Jehan felt like something hot was bursting inside his chest, and for a moment he couldn’t even see around the onslaught of emotion. Unable to say anything, he clutched at Courfeyrac’s shoulders and pulled him up into a fierce kiss. 

Courfeyrac came willingly, pushing himself up onto one hand and throwing the other around Jehan’s neck. When he broke away for air, Jehan kissed down his neck and marking it with words, not bruises. They knew Courfeyrac couldn’t afford to have visible marks, but in that moment he felt like the _I love you_ s being pressed into his neck were being written into his skin and pulsing through his blood. 

__

Musichetta and Bahorel were both formidable people separately, but the two of them together with rage glittering in their eyes was a terrifying sight at 7 in the morning. 

Jehan answered the door and stood there, unsure of what to do. “Um, hi?” he said.

Musichetta’s eyes softened as she looked at him, but her mouth was still a sharp line. “May we come in?”

Once they were seated in the living room, Bahorel surveyed Jehan and Courfeyrac from across the coffee table. “Jehan, they were at your house last night,” he said bluntly. 

Musichetta shot Bahorel a sharp look, as if to say “You couldn’t be any more gentle than that?” Courfeyrac touched Jehan’s shoulder in comfort. But Jehan only nodded firmly. 

“That’s not surprising.”

Now Musichetta looked surprised, both at his words and his reaction, and he clarified. “Well, the pattern’s obvious, isn’t it? They’re trying to throw us off, and they’re going after the people they think will be the most affected. Éponine’s a woman and Joly’s notorious for his overreactions, and I’m, well,” he broke off and gestured to the cat on his sweater with a resigned smile. “It’s what makes sense, if you don’t know us very well, isn’t it?”

Bahorel and Musichetta were openly staring at him by now. After a moment, Musichetta spoke again. “We have trained police investigators trying to figure out the pattern of these break-ins. How...?”

Courfeyrac smiled at Jehan and said, “He doesn’t look at things the way the rest of us do.”

“Who do you think is next?” asked Bahorel, getting to the point. 

Jehan pursed his lips in thought. “Cosette, probably.” 

Musichetta made a note. “I have to apologize on behalf of the police. The officer in charge of surveillance at your house decided taking a nap would be more interesting than watching for criminals, and he only woke up in time to see a man running away.”

That explained the anger on their faces when they had arrived, then. Jehan felt bad for the officer who would have to answer to the combined wrath of Musichetta and Bahorel. 

Forty minutes later, as they were about to leave, Jehan heard a crash from the kitchen. He came running in to find Courfeyrac standing stock-still in the middle of the room, a plate shattered at his feet. 

“Courf, are you okay?” he gasped, hesitant to step any closer in his bare feet. 

Courfeyrac whirled around, and Jehan’s eyes widened at the fear on his face. “What’s happened?”

Courfeyrac answered by rushing to embrace Jehan tightly, nose buried in his neck. Jehan was confused, but not unhappy, at this turn of events, and clung to him without further questioning. 

After a moment, Courfeyrac spoke quietly. “It just hit me that they were in your house last night. If you hadn’t been here...” He broke off and clutched Jehan tighter. 

Jehan had to suppress a shiver at the raw note in Courfeyrac’s voice. He wasn’t worried for himself, but he hated to see what this was doing to the people he loved. 

__

Despite Combeferre’s best efforts, the productivity of the office was grinding to a halt. Half the staffers were on guard for their own lives, while the rest only knew increasingly-outrageous rumors about what was going on, resulting in frayed nerves and high tensions. At least there was no infighting—they clung to each other to stay sane, becoming closer than ever before. The near-miss at Jehan’s was the last straw. Once the news had spread amongst the senior staff, they spent so long just holding each other and ignoring the ringing of their phones that Combeferre sent most of them home early. “There are two weeks until the election,” he reminded them. “Like it or not, we’re going to have to live with this thing hanging over our heads until it gets resolved. I expect you all to be back in the game tomorrow.”

Éponine wanted to stay and keep working, but when she read the same email four times without understanding any of it she realized how desperately she needed sleep, and she allowed Cosette to drive her back to Cosette’s apartment. 

(It wasn’t until later that she realized if they had stayed at the office later, there might have been enough time for Musichetta to escort them home.)

Cosette hesitated in the hallway outside her apartment. Éponine put an awkward hand on her shoulder, feeling uncomfortable with the whole “reassurance” thing. She had never really had any close female friends, and it hadn’t gotten better once she started rising in the political field. By necessity, Éponine had become “one of the guys,” but she couldn’t help but enjoy the ease with which she interacted with Cosette. It was nice to let her guard down once in a while.

Cosette took a deep breath, and tested the doorknob. It was locked. 

She unlocked it and was turning to smile at Éponine as she opened the door, which was why she didn’t notice the man standing in the room. 

Éponine saw him, though, and the glint of metal in his hand. Before she was even aware of the gun, she had thrown herself in front of Cosette. 

The bullet thudded into the wall a foot away from them—they had startled the man, and he hadn’t had time to aim. He lifted the gun to try again, and Éponine shrieked at a sudden pain in her wrist. It was a moment before she realized it wasn’t from a bullet, but rather from landing hard on her arm as Cosette pushed her down behind the couch for protection. 

Gritting her teeth against the pain, she pulled her handgun out of her purse. There was no way she could fire it in this condition, though, and she knew it. Her eyes met Cosette’s, and she gave up the gun to the other woman without a word. Her life was almost literally in Cosette’s hands. 

Footsteps sounded from the other side of the couch. Éponine wasn’t sure if time seemed drawn out to her or if the man just wasn’t in any hurry. It seemed like forever as Cosette clicked off the safety and twisted around the side of the couch— _too far, too much of a target, he’ll hit you_ —

A shot rang out. Someone screamed. 

And Éponine, nearly faint from the pain, looked up to find the man lying on the floor of Cosette’s apartment in a spreading pool of blood.

 _That’ll stain the flooring_ , she thought stupidly, and passed out.

__

The drive to Combeferre’s house was mostly a silent one. They had spent all their words on explaining the situation to Musichetta, who burst in only a minute or two after the fight to find Cosette helping Éponine onto the couch while one of the leaders of a wanted hate group lay bleeding out from a gunshot wound to his thigh. Then they had to describe Éponine’s injury to the EMT, then they told the whole story again to Combeferre over the phone. He was the one who had insisted they all come to his house that night, and while Éponine looked forward to the comfort of her friends’ presence, she couldn’t help but savor the few minutes of quiet before the onslaught. 

There was one thing she wanted to know, though. “Where did you learn to shoot?” she asked Cosette softly, not wanting to disturb the peaceful atmosphere.

“I grew up in a very sheltered area,” she explained. “When I decided to move here, my father insisted I be ready to defend myself, so I took dozens of self-defense courses.”

“I’m glad you did,” Éponine murmured. 

And that night, surrounded by a pile of friends who simply weren’t willing to relinquish contact with each other to go to bed, Éponine slept better than she had in a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes, that is Patron-Minette setting up the plot, but I just couldn't find a way to actually work their name in without it sounding absurd (I say as I write a story about an American named Enjolras...)
> 
> 2\. Just for the purposes of keeping track, here are the characters and their positions:  
> \- Enjolras is the Presidential candidate, Courfeyrac is the Vice Presidential candidate  
> \- Combeferre is the head of the campaign/chief of staff/guy in charge of everything  
> \- Cosette is his assistant  
> \- Éponine is the head political analyst/strategist for the campaign; basically the person that comes up with the plans for winning  
> \- Jehan is chief speechwriter  
> \- Bossuet is head of communications, so he works a lot with both Jehan and the media  
> \- Joly is coordinator of the campaign volunteers across the country  
> \- Feuilly is head of graphics (he creates the logos and entire "look" of the campaign)  
> \- Bahorel is the Secret Service agent designated to protect Enjolras, but he also helps with coordinating more general security for the campaign  
> \- Grantaire is not technically part of the campaign staff - he's the main media correspondent covering the campaign, so he spends all his time with them including traveling to events  
> \- Haffley is the incumbent (current) president, a Republican; Hoynes is the Democratic challenger. Points if you get the reference.  
> \- and now we've met Musichetta!
> 
> 3\. Your feedback has been lovely and amazing <3 Thank you all!


	5. Election Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. The nature of a campaign is that it doesn't last forever, and so neither can this story. This is it, folks! I'm not done with this verse, though - the story of how Jehan and Courfeyrac got together should be coming soon.
> 
> 2\. This has been my first foray into writing in years, and I am overwhelmed by your responses. Thank you so much to everyone who read, commented, or left kudos!
> 
> 3\. Julia (teamenjolras on tumblr) is, as always, a complete lifesaver and a perfect human being.
> 
> 4\. You've all been wonderful with not calling out what I'm sure are the many inaccuracies (as well as abuses of em-dashes and far too many West Wing references) in this story so far, and I beg your patience one last time for those of you who have more Election Day experience than me.

There was something wrong in the air.

The skin between Grantaire’s shoulderblades crawled and he picked up his pace to the office. He arrived to find the front desk abandoned and all the lights off, papers still scattered haphazardly across the floor. His footsteps echoed hollowly on the cold floors, the only sound in the building; he wanted to call out but he was too afraid to break the silence. Something was very wrong.

He caught a glimpse of movement in the corner and turned, to find a TV displaying the local news on mute.

He stepped closer as the screen changed to show emergency vehicles surrounding a patch of sidewalk he recognized—only a few blocks from the office. The camera showed a body being loaded into an ambulance. As he watched, the light caught on golden hair at the temple, matted with blood, and Grantaire knew even before the news headline scrolled across the bottom of the screen.

_Breaking: Presidential candidate assassinated_

White noise buzzed in Grantaire’s ears and the air in his lungs seemed a solid weight. The ground rushed towards him and he couldn’t see—he could hear sirens in the distance— _Enjolras, no, not him_ —

He awoke with a gasp, sweat pooling at his throat and sheets tangled about his legs. He lay still for a moment, waiting for his heart to stop pounding. The room was silent and dark, the only light coming from the green _3:42 AM_ glowing from his clock. Slowly, he sat up and leaned his head into his hands, still breathing hard.

This was getting out of control. He dreamt about Enjolras practically every night, now. At first the dreams were far more enjoyable, but more and more Grantaire found himself waking with his heart racing for a much different reason. Even the group that had threatened them being locked away did nothing to stop his nightmares.

Grantaire, for all his faults, was not a dishonest man. He never lied to others, so he did not see the need to lie to himself either. And he knew that this – thing – with him and Enjolras was getting too serious. Of course, he readily acknowledged the physical attraction—you’d have to be blind not to be attracted to Enjolras, and he often pointed out that at least half of their votes would be earned by Enjolras’ bone structure (a fact which Enjolras did not, in fact, enjoy being told). So he’d picture Enjolras in the shower, so what. He had eyes, after all. But what started off as curiosity had swelled to reluctant inspiration and had reached a level of fixation, where Grantaire could no longer tell his attraction to Enjolras’ ideals apart from his attraction to the man himself. And it was only made worse by all the time they spent together, when Enjolras revealed himself to be surprisingly gentle and brilliantly charming and the most honest person Grantaire had ever met.

Grantaire sighed and ran his hands through his curls wearily. He couldn’t lie to himself. He was falling head over fucking heels in love with a man who, in less than 24 hours, might just be elected President of the United States.

 

* * *

 

**November 6, 5 A.M. EST – fourteen hours until polls begin to close**

Sudden music from the alarm clock blared sharply into the silence. Still half-asleep, Jehan fumbled to turn it off as quickly as possible. He held his breath and peered at Courfeyrac, beside him in the bed. Jehan had awoken a few hours before as Courfeyrac stumbled in from a late flight, barely even taking the time to take off his tuxedo before collapsing into bed in exhaustion. It had been the last campaign event for Courfeyrac. Now, the next formal appearance he would make would be after the results were in—and he couldn’t look sleep-deprived, no matter what the manner of the appearance turned out to be.

As Jehan watched, he stirred a little bit and mumbled “wh’times’it?”

Jehan leaned over to press a kiss to his forehead. “Go back to sleep, love. I’ll see you in a few hours.” Courfeyrac burrowed deeper into the blankets, apparently falling back into a deeper sleep once again. Jehan slipped out of the room, yawning, to make coffee and turn on the news. Early morning election coverage was mostly just last-minute numbers and human-interest stories. He preferred watching the stories about 100-year-old voters to the endless cycle of pundit talking heads, anyway.

He couldn’t feel too bad about having to wake up at 5 when he knew that their volunteers had already been up for at least an hour (and he was certain that Combeferre had been as well). At that moment, volunteers were setting up polling booths, posting signs, standing out in the cold to get out the vote. Sitting in his kitchen, he knew: this was the calm before the storm. When the storm came, it would hit hard and fast and it would take less than 24 hours. And then the dust would settle, and it would all be over.

 

* * *

 

Jehan’s guess was correct. At that moment, Combeferre was in his office, on the phone arranging press interviews for the day. As he hung up, he thought how strange it was that on this, the most important day of the campaign, he could only take care of the details. Most of the work of the campaign was over—it was up to the local teams and volunteers now. All he could do was put out fires and keep an eye on the numbers.

He heard the main door open, and smiled a bit to himself. He might not have minded the detail-work, but Enjolras did not have his patience for this sort of waiting. His guess was proven correct a moment later, as the candidate himself entered Combeferre’s office and took a seat. They sat in silence for a moment.

“I suppose there’s no point in me telling you that you have no reason to be here this early,” Combeferre said wryly.

Enjolras did not try to deny it. “I can’t stop thinking there must be something I can do. You know how much I dislike being a figurehead.” His lips twisted in a hint of a sneer on the last word, and Combeferre leaned forward to meet his blue gaze.

“Enjolras, we both know that you are far from being a figurehead. You have been the flame that drives the engine of this campaign from the very beginning. Or do you not remember how we started?”

Enjolras smiled at the memory. “You were right, back then. We had no idea what we were getting into.”

Combeferre hadn’t entirely known what to make of Enjolras’ decision that he would run, he recalled. He had assumed it would be some sort of protest, another attempt by an independent candidate to chip away at the two-party system. But Enjolras had been entirely serious, certain that the voters would recognize the best option and make the right choice. The early days had been full of intensity and issue-driven campaigning, and Combeferre began to wonder at their chances when he saw the numbers of young voters that were jumping ship from a lackluster Democrat to support the young, fiery independent. And then Courfeyrac came along. As a team, Enjolras and Courfeyrac were unstoppable. Together, they charmed voters into opening their minds to a third-party possibility and roused them with brilliant rhetoric. Without much money for ads, they had to rely on word-of-mouth to generate interest, and no one—least of all the media—could have anticipated how quickly their message would spread. And then came Jehan and his words, Pontmercy and the money from his PAC, Éponine and her brilliant political strategy...

And here they were, just hours from the first votes being cast, neck-and-neck in the polls with the major party candidates. They had done the impossible.

Combeferre looked at Enjolras, knowing they were both thinking the same thing. There was no need to talk; there were no words to describe their shared emotion in that moment. Finally, Enjolras stood and leaned across the desk, covering Combeferre’s hands with his.

“I’ll let you get back to work. Combeferre...” he paused, eyes utterly sincere. “Thank you.”

Combeferre inclined his head slightly. “Thank _you_ , my friend.”

 

* * *

 

**8 A.M. EST – eleven hours until polls begin to close**

Where the office had been quiet and still only a few hours before, it was now bustling with interns and volunteers. Those who could not find a chair stood or sat on the floor, sheets of names and phone numbers in hand.

“Hi, I’m calling for Susan, is she available?”

“—with Enjolras for America. I’m calling to remind—”

“—have a pen? I’ll give you the address of your local polling—”

Among the phonebankers was Enjolras himself, calling voter after voter without a script to personally encourage them to vote. (It was no photo op, but that didn’t stop Feuilly from taking a couple pictures and posting them to the campaign twitter.) In one corner sat Joly, putting together their numbers with those coming in from around the country. Every few minutes, he would shout some numbers to Éponine across the room, where she would enter them into an extraordinarily complicated spreadsheet that only she was able to understand and write a note for Cosette to bring to Combeferre. Grantaire, having kicked a volunteer out of one of the chairs, sat hunched over his computer posting live blog updates and chugging coffee. Occasionally, he would lean over and comment on what Jehan was scribbling on a legal pad (legitimate feedback, for once—even Grantaire wasn’t willing to screw around on Election Day). Bossuet fielded press inquiries by phone with utter calm, as though he wasn’t surrounded by chaos, only pausing to give feedback when Jehan read potential lines out to him and Grantaire.

Courfeyrac leaned in the doorway and observed the madness. They had come so far from the days of having to fight just to get a 5 minute segment on NPR. Love for their odd family struck him, and for a moment he saw them all not in the Boston office but in the White House. In his mind’s eye, he saw Enjolras sitting not on a folding chair but behind the desk of the President; he saw the better and brighter America that they had spent so long fighting for.

Someone called his name, and the image passed away in a blink. But he still felt its glow in his chest, and he stepped forward into the chaos with new energy.

 

* * *

 

**9 A.M. EST – ten hours until polls begin to close**

“I need a synonym for ‘unite’.”

Grantaire looked up. “Depends, which one is this for?”

“Concession speech,” Jehan said, chewing his pen.

A passing volunteer paused by his desk. “Wait, are you really writing a concession speech?” she asked, confused. “Aren’t we supposed to be optimistic? I think we’re going to win!”

Jehan gasped dramatically. “You want to tempt the wrath of the whatever from—”

“Yes, yes,” Grantaire interrupted, rolling his eyes. To the volunteer, he added, “No one’s an optimist on Election Day. It’s against the rules. Hollywood lied to you. Shoo.”

 

* * *

 

**10 A.M. EST – nine hours until polls begin to close**

“Well, Anderson, there are really no guarantees in this election. Take a look at Texas and California—they’ve both got major electoral votes, but are usually assumed to be solid blue and solid red. But this year, you’ve got a pro-gun Texan Democrat cutting into a lot of those traditionally Republican votes, while out in California the Independent is being seen by many as the only true liberal candidate. There’s not enough exit polling data yet to make any calls about what might happen in those states, but let’s take a look at the map for a better idea of what’s going on.”

 

* * *

 

**12 P.M. EST – seven hours until polls begin to close**

Enjolras may have enjoyed the opportunity to talk to voters, but it was clear to everyone that the thing he was most looking forward to was the chance to cast his own ballot. For him, it wasn’t symbolic—it was the actual manifestation of his rights as a citizen. So following the schedule dictated by Cosette, he set off at noon exactly to go to the local high school, where a polling place was set up in the gym. Courfeyrac joined him; Grantaire came along to take pictures. Enjolras would have liked to wait in line with the rest, but they couldn’t afford to lose several hours. He did stop to bestow a handshake or a smile on those waiting, thanking them for doing their patriotic duty.

“I think this counts as electioneering,” Grantaire muttered to Courfeyrac. “He may not be telling anyone to vote for him, but are any of those people really going to vote against him now?” He nodded towards those who had come face-to-face with Enjolras and now looked slightly stunned by his presence.

Courfeyrac raised an eyebrow at Grantaire. “Hm,” he said. There was a look in his eyes that Grantaire couldn’t quite figure out, and wasn’t sure he really wanted to. The man was far too sensitive to interpersonal dynamics. Grantaire felt uncomfortably like he and Jehan together could practically read minds.

As if realizing Grantaire’s discomfort, Courfeyrac slipped from the searching look into his usual grin. “I’d pay to see the FEC try to penalize him for being good looking.”

“It’s not just looks, but—” Grantaire cut himself off, and sighed. “I’ll just stop now. I’m already too damned obvious.”

Courfeyrac laughed, not unkindly. “That might be for the best.” In a softer voice, he added. “I assume you don’t want to talk about this—”

“You assume correctly.”

“—so all I’ll say is that what’s obvious to us isn’t always so obvious to Enjolras. Talk to him.”

Grantaire snorted as Courfeyrac stepped away to enter the polling booth. Talking about his feelings was not in the schedule for today. He raised his camera once again as Enjolras emerged from the booth, looking like a king under the fluorescent lights of a high school gym.

 

* * *

 

**2 P.M. EST – five hours until polls begin to close**

“We’re receiving reports of electronic voting machines in Florida not recording votes for any third-party candidates. For more, we turn to our correspondent....”

“ _Combeferre!_ ”

“Yes, yes, I’m dealing with it.”

 

* * *

 

**3 P.M. EST – four hours until polls begin to close**

By the time that Enjolras paced his third circuit around the phonebankers, Grantaire and Jehan mutually agreed he was becoming altogether too overwhelming. “I have real work to do,” Jehan informed Grantaire. “Go feed him.”

Grantaire narrowed his eyes at Jehan, who blinked, innocent as a Disney princess.“Are you really plotting something on Election Day?”

“I have been told specifically that there are to be no unnecessary complications on today of all days,” Jehan told him, looking vaguely annoyed at this affront to his romantic spirit. “But he needs an outlet for all this tension, and you settle him. Just go argue for twenty minutes or something, that’s all.”

“How appealing,” Grantaire said with a roll of his eyes.

Fifteen minutes later, he found himself bickering with Enjolras about the Electoral College.

“—symptomatic of the separation between the people and their government,” Enjolras was saying, gesturing with a pickle and nearly knocking his sandwich across the backseat of the car. “No one’s vote should be more important than anyone else’s.”

“No, it’s the Electoral College that prevents regional disenfranchisement in the first place,” Grantaire picked up the beat of the argument. They went back and forth, arguing in circles as Grantaire switched positions to counter Enjolras at every turn. Jehan had been right—Enjolras had needed this outlet for his restless energy. But though his intensity was settling back to its usual levels, he seemed strangely focused in a way that Grantaire could not make sense of.

“Every vote matters, every _person_ matters,” Enjolras said, looking inexplicably sad in a way that was more than his general over-empathizing with the People. Grantaire felt like the conversation had shifted without his knowledge, and he no longer knew where they stood.

The sudden disorientation gave him pause, and momentary silence stretched huge between them. “Enjolras, what—” Grantaire spoke.

“You didn’t vote today,” Enjolras cut him off quietly.

Grantaire blinked, now thoroughly confused. “No...”

“I thought,” Enjolras paused, looking uncharacteristically unsure of himself. “I thought that you had changed your mind, that you had come to see the value in politics. I... had hoped for your vote.”

Understanding dawned, and Grantaire couldn’t help but laugh. He immediately regretted it. Something in Enjolras’ face fell, and he looked for a moment very young and very vulnerable.

“No— Enjolras, you idiot— I’m still registered in California. I voted by mail last week.”

Enjolras’ eyes darted up to meet his. “You voted?”

“For the first time since I was 20, God help me.”

“For—?”

“You’re not allowed to ask people who they voted for, it’s against the rules,” he laughed. But Enjolras was giving him that impossibly wondering look again and he couldn’t stop himself, couldn’t even think, could only lean forward and whisper _you_ against Enjolras’ lips except it wasn’t a political conversation anymore at all, it was a kiss, and _oh god what was he doing_.

He ripped himself away, unable to do anything more than stare at Enjolras in horror. For the first time since they had met, Enjolras looked entirely at a loss for words. Grantaire threw open the car door and nearly fell onto the sidewalk, sparing a thought to be glad that they were already parked.

 _So much for no unnecessary complications_ , he thought. _What the hell did I just do._

(Through the darkened windows of the car he left behind, Enjolras raised his fingers to gently touch his mouth.)

 

* * *

 

**5 P.M. EST – two hours until polls begin to close**

Jehan dotted an _i_ , laid his pen down decisively, and stood up. Bossuet looked up. “Are they...”

Jehan nodded solemnly and handed his legal pad across the desk for the last time. Once Bossuet had made his final corrections, he brought it to Combeferre and laid it on his desk without a word.

Combeferre did not react much while reading the speeches, only nodding slowly as he finished. “This is good,” he said at last, looking at Jehan with deep approval on his face. “Type them up and have Enjolras prepare all three—it won’t be long now before we learn which one he needs to know.”

Jehan could not help but be overwhelmed by a sudden onslaught of emotion, and he circled the desk to fling his arms around Combeferre’s neck. Combeferre, surprised but not displeased by Jehan’s behavior, rubbed his back gently. When Jehan stepped back, there were tears glistening in his eyes.

“Everything’s going to be different, isn’t it? No matter what happens. And just the thought that after all this, we might lose...”

Combeferre would not lie to him. “And if indeed I fail, at least, to know the worst, is sweet,” he quoted softly.

“Defeat means nothing but defeat,” Jehan finished with him. “Thank you, Combeferre.”

 

* * *

 

**6 P.M. EST – one hour until polls begin to close**

Grantaire may not have had the luxury of staying away from the office for too long (he did have a job to do, after all) but that didn’t mean he had to talk to Enjolras. Luckily, he had to appear on several TV stations via satellite, providing him with a convenient excuse to ignore the other man.

Less than five minutes after he had walked back to the office, Jehan had texted him. _What. Did. You. Do._

The next text had come in almost immediately afterwards. _NO COMPLICATIONS._

Grantaire hadn’t responded and had done his best to ignore the thoroughly terrifying glares Jehan was shooting him from across the room.

He agreed with Jehan, that was the thing. He had fucked up massively. If it weren’t for the fact that he still had another TV appearance slated, he would have replaced his entire cup of coffee with whiskey and been well on his way to passing out to try to forget this whole thing (to forget the entire year). As it was, his only consolation was that after today, he would never have to talk to Enjolras again if he didn’t want to.

He was so caught up in his own angst that, as he ducked into the drafty stairwell to light a cigarette, he didn’t notice someone following him.

The cigarette was almost to his lips when he was shoved against the wall. He barely had a moment to struggle before he met Enjolras’ fierce gaze, and the cigarette fell forgotten from his fingers as Enjolras’ lips sealed over his.

Enjolras was intense, but Grantaire had always been a match for him. After a moment of stunned stillness, he threw himself into the kiss, fingers twining into Enjolras’ curls. And this was it, wasn’t it, this was what they had been building to all along—from the first handshake, everything had brought them to this moment in a chilly Boston stairwell.

Grantaire was the first to pull back, after what seemed to be both a lifetime and only a moment simultaneously. Foreheads pressed together, their ragged breathing echoed in the stairwall. Some small part of Grantaire’s brain remembered to be glad that the stairs were abandoned in favor of the elevator, but the rest of his thoughts were in utter disarray.

“This could be a disaster,” he whispered hoarsely.

Then Enjolras pulled back slightly to meet his eyes, and everything seemed to fall into place. There was no fear or indecision in Enjolras’ eyes, only the same fire that had driven him throughout the whole campaign. Grantaire should have realized: he would approach this as he did everything, with wholehearted passion. Grantaire shivered a bit at the possibility.

“Yes,” Enjolras agreed. “But it could also be amazing.”

 

* * *

 

**7 P.M. EST – polls close on the East Coast**

As always, they met at Cosette’s. They had gathered there for all the debates and conventions, and now they returned for the last time to watch the results. There were two laptops set up beside the main screen, each showing a different major news network. Éponine’s phone was out, ready to call out numbers if they came in before the news could announce.

It was typical for candidates to be with their families while watching the results; Enjolras did not feel as though he was doing anything different. They had worked together, laughed together, fought, loved, cried together; now, they would win or lose together.

The room felt oddly calm. There was none of the nervous chatter that had filled the office earlier, no grand displays of emotion. Each and every one of them knew that they had done everything they could. Whatever the outcome, they had given their all for the campaign.

Enjolras looked around him, at these people who shared his vision of a better tomorrow. He had no words, no grand speech to encompass what he felt at that moment, and he closed his eyes at the rush of love.

On the television screen, the announcement for the first projection of the evening displayed across the bottom.

It was starting.


End file.
